Page 53 of Too Scot to Handle
Even the best of brothers did not deserve Rosalyn’s attention whenever he snapped his fingers, and yet, Win had been out with Lord Colin, who was the brother of a duke, not bad-looking despite his red hair, and rumored to be well off.
Rosalyn tidied the deck—how she loved the feel of a stack of cards in her hands—put it back into the hidden drawer, took another sip of her drink, and joined Win on the sofa.
“You’re in a mood,” she said. “I have whiled away a perfectly lovely day, practicing the pianoforte, writing to Aunt Margaret to inquire about the weather in Italy this time of year, and otherwise avoiding Papa’s notice, while you went off to Richmond. One of us has to behave some of the time, Winthrop.”
He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, the picture of young manhood at his oppressed leisure. Perhaps his new boots had given him a blister or he’d lost a particularly vexing wager.
“Lord Colin presumed to remonstrate with me.” Win’s tone was slightly bewildered and definitely peevish.
“He outranks you. He’s a duke’s heir, you’re merely an earl’s spare. I don’t pretend to understand the nuances of gentlemanly posturing, but why shouldn’t he remonstrate with you?”
“We fellows don’t posture, Roz. We are honorable, civil at all times. We are gentlemen.”
They were a lot of hypocrites, professing to honor women while making sport half the night with soiled doves; tut-tutting in their clubs about a climbing boy’s death—climbing boys were always meeting horrible fates, given the number of chimneys in London—while doing nothing to amend the laws affecting the poor little wretches.
“You are merely human,” Rosalyn said, “though I suspect Lord Colin has chosen the wrong time to turn up human himself. His circumstances aren’t easy, Winthrop.”
“Must you be so good, Roz? I’m embarking on a fit of the dismals, and you’re helping all too effectively.”
Rosalyn took another swallow of brandy and passed the drink over to Win. Half a glass resulted in an agreeable glow, and Win would pour more for her if she asked it of him.
“I’m good only because it annoys you. Tell me about Lord Colin.”
Rosalyn had considered attaching the affections of the new Duke of Murdoch, Lord Colin’s older brother. His Grace was a brute of a man. His past, rife with rumors of scandal and disgrace, had quelled her enthusiasm for his company. While she’d been steeling her nerve to endure his suit despite the gossip—he was a duke, and rumored to be quite wealthy—Miss Megan Windham had stolen a march on her.
These things happened, though Rosalyn would rather they didn’t happen to her. Young, single, wealthy dukes were scarcer than sober university students.
“About Lord Colin,” Win said, making even the name an ode to long-suffering. “A few of the fellows decided to play a prank on him. We thought we’d lighten his pockets by putting a convivial evening or two on his account. He can stand the expense, believe me, Roz.”
And Win could not. Rosalyn well knew how financial constraints could pinch worse than an overlaced corset.
“He failed to see the humor?”
“I gather Scottish humor is an oxymoron.” Win finished the drink and held the glass up to the light. “I can’t entirely blame him for his pique.”
“Blame him a little. He’s put you out of sorts, and that I cannot abide.”
Rosalyn took the glass from Win and refilled it at the sideboard. She helped herself to another sip, brought it back to Win, and settled next to him.
“What’s the rest of it?” she asked, because in the normal course, Win would have lifted a handsome eyebrow at his lordship, six other lackeys would have lifted their eyebrows—a Greek chorus of manly condescension—and Lord Colin would have fallen into an embarrassed silence.
He was not a stupid man, even if he was red-haired and Scottish.
Though his lordship had let Win entangle him with the House of Urchins—not the most shrewd decision, that.
“The prank got out of hand, which I should have anticipated. Pierpont has never known when to leave well enough alone. He had the tailors bill a new morning coat to Lord Colin, who, thanks to me, patronizes the same establishment. Pointy told them it was in settlement of a wager.”
“For Hector Pierpont, that verges on genius.”
“Exactly. Who would have thought Pierpont, of all the dim candles, could have aspired to such cleverness? Not to be outdone, Twillinger decided to try the same tactic at Tatts, and came away with one more horse for his stables, a fine gelding. I gather a pair of boots is on order, a dozen pairs of gloves, three gold-tipped walking sticks, and who knows what else has been put in train.”
Tatts dealt with only top quality horseflesh, and English law took anything relating to an exchange of equine stock very seriously.
“You are not concerned for Lord Colin,” Rosalyn said. “You are in a pet because your scheme has taken on a life of its own. Your dearest friends have placed you in an awkward position, though all of them would reciprocate by claiming you put them up to it.”
And the claims would doubtless be justified. Winthrop had a devious streak, which when combined with his gift for bonhomie could look a lot like manipulation.
“I hate you.” Said with sincere, if reluctant, brotherly affection. “I very nearly hate old Pointy, Twilly, and the lot of them.” He drained half the glass and passed it to her. “At least it wasn’t entirely my idea.”
